Promises
by frankiewode
Summary: Distraught in the immediate aftermath of his beloved wife's death, Tom Branson is certain of only one thing. Where she goes, he follows. His dark desire forces him out into the night where he is faced with a fatal choice. Will he stay for the one who needs him most?


Promises

**A/N:** So yeah I hate everything right now. Fellowes has lost one more viewers because the way he dealt with Sybil was DISGUSTING. He didn't even bother to get the medical details right and ugh I just. Sorry. I'm pretty much in mourning for our beautiful, sweet Sybil. Still can't believe she's gone. And since I know Fellowes isn't going to do it properly I thought I'd write this fic to give myself a little closure.

Still can't believe my perfect otp ended so tragically. UGH STUPID ENSEMBLE CASTS.

_Disclaimer: I wish I owned Downton because if I did Sybil never would have died, the Irish issue would have been dealt with properly and Robert would be rotting in a dark pit somewhere. hahahahahAHAHAHAHAHAHA._

* * *

'Love… love, please don't leave me. Please don't go. Don't leave me. I can't stay without you. Love, don't go, just breathe, love, just breathe. Please just breathe. Oh god. Oh god, love no, just breathe! Listen to me, love, don't leave me! Oh god, no! Do something! Just do something to help her! Oh god, oh god NO!'

The air around him thins as she takes her last breath. There is a static ringing in his ears. He can't move.

The fit stops, her head falls back onto the pillow, her eyes close. The last time he sees those bright blue inquisitive eyes they are twisted in pain.

Cora wails beside him. She is screaming her daughter's name, begging for recovery. But he has stopped. He still clasps Sybil's hand against his cheek, despairing how such a petite and lifeless thing could belong to his vibrant and excitable wife.

Murmurs fill the room. He had forgotten. The rest of the family. He doesn't want to look at them. Not now. He doesn't want to face their grief. He doesn't want to face their reality because then he will have to face his own. He doesn't want to see the pity Matthew will surely impart. He doesn't want to watch as the pompous doctor writes off his abhorrent murder as a learning curve. He doesn't want to look into the face of the man who decided his Sybil's fate. The man who values money and title over all else. Because if he does; Tom knows he will kill him.

He leaves the room. The baby starts to scream behind him and Mary calls him, alarmed, but a soft voice makes her pause and he continues down the corridor.

Where to go? Sybil's bedroom is the only place he has ever slept but it is tainted for him now. He glances down into the hall and feels an unavoidable rage fill his heart. Hand-carved tables, heavy curtains, Persian rugs, all the things Robert values. The materialism and propriety he put before precaution.

He needs to get out.

The sky is black and forms a vast fold across the countryside. He remembers driving up and down that cobbled pathway. Eight years. Eight years waiting. And for what? For this? He avoids it and stumbles onto the grass. The village is only a short walk from here, right? He needs a drink.

It is only when he has left the towering spires of Downton Abbey far behind that he realises he has no plans to return.

He stands outside the local pub for several minutes. It's pitch black inside. Closed. Of course… it's the middle of the night. He tries the door in vain, and when he fails he leans against the glass and closes his eyes. The cold stings against his forehead. 'WHY?' He screams into the dark. 'Oh god, why. What did she do to deserve this…' He falls completely against the glass, slipping to the floor. 'How could this happen to the wisest and sweetest creature on god's earth? How could she die at the hands of fools? … I don't understand what I'm supposed to do now…' His sobs pierce the night air but he cannot be silent.

He soon rouses an audience.

Lights flicker on in the houses around him and curious voices are heard before four men stand tall above him. They take in his curious and dishevelled appearance Tom remembers deliriously that he is still wearing the nightgown and slippers Matthew had lent. 'I think this fella's drunk,' one of the men whispers to the other. Tom laughs bitterly. No such luck. He reaches behind him and tries to pull himself up and immediately attracts the help of the youngest. 'You ought to be careful, sir. T'won't do no good to the rest of them if you're seen like this.'

Sir? Oh right the nightgown… They must know who he is, who he's connected to. They think he's drunk. They want to protect the reputation of the Crawley's just as they've been taught to do. They're tame, weak, pathetic creatures. They've never even thought about breaking out of the mould that was set for them. The bravery of one perfect woman would put them all to shame. But what use was it? She escaped and upper-class bigotry found a way to punish her.

Tom shoves away the arm of the youth and faces him in a bout of rage. 'I don't need any help. Not from the likes of you.' They withdraw a little. Good. He continues. 'You're all fools. All of you. You think if you wait like good little workers, God'll give you what you deserve.' He wipes a heavy hand across his brow but doesn't falter. 'You have no idea what world you really live in. This world… where ugly traditions prosper and beautiful people with beautiful souls… they die… they die because they wanted more from life. Oh god if I knew. If I knew there was such a price for a few months of happiness, I never would have taken it. I never…'

He turned away from them and wiped his tears away hurriedly whispering now only to himself. 'She would still be alive… Oh god.'

'Has something happened to you?'

Tom swings round quickly and swings a fist to connect with the older man's mouth. It makes a loud smack and he goes reeling to the ground. 'Pa!' screams the youth dropping down to support him. 'What the 'eck was that for?'

The two other men have assumed defensive positions and are eyeing Tom warily. He doesn't care. He knows these men don't deserve what he's doing but he doesn't care. If he can't hit Robert then they will have to do. He swings again but the element of surprise has deserted him and he takes a swift blow to the stomach. Pain blooms in his side and he is relieved. Let them. Let them. He deserves this.

Why should she have been the one in such pain? Why should she have been the one who died? Why should she bear all the blame when they should take it on together. They always shared the burden of the others troubles. That's how it was with them. Except tonight; tonight when everything had fallen out of balance.

'Hit me,' he commands savagely to the strongest of the group. 'Hit me.' The man slings a blow to his cheek, then his torso, then his shoulder. Tom only fights back enough to force continuation. Pains from all over his body start to emerge, he bites his tongue to numb it and blood fills his mouth. 'Again,' he snarls when the man begins to hesitate. His breath is ragged and hoarse. 'Don't you dare stop now.'

But he does.

The youth is calm now, having tended to his father. He stands up and stares at the pitiful creature Tom must look. His eyes are red from constant anguish, blood smudged on his face and through his hair, the dressing gown mutilated and muddied.

'Go 'ome,' he tells Tom. 'Just go 'ome and sleep. We're not going to kill you'

Tom blinks and wonders at the command this kid wields with men twice his age and strength. In another life, what he might have been capable of…

'I don't have a home here,' he replies without the energy for malice.

In the end what can they do? A life-time spent fighting and still the ruling class comes out on top. Children will still be born into a life that dictates what they are capable of. Not allowed to dream, not allowed to leave the small cages that have been built around them. They will live, work and marry just as their parents did, and just as their grandparents did. Tom had thought they were revolutionary, but maybe they were just the exception. The rule would carry on.

But Sybil… her voice carries through him like a sudden gust of wind. 'I will not be free with our child's chances,' she said. Together they would have brought up this child to believe anything. Together they would have raised her to do anything she set her mind to. With such a mother who could have believed otherwise. And now she might be taken by the Crawley's… groomed… pampered… trapped.

No…

Sybil had wanted so much for their child. And if it were up to the Earl her plans would fade into memory. He couldn't… no he wouldn't let that happen. Never, ever, would he let that memory fade.

'I promise, Sybil,' he whispers under his breath. 'I promise she'll have every chance in the world. She'll have a good education, but she'll know what good, honest, hard work means. I promise that she'll never go hungry, but she'll know how lucky she is when others do. I promise that she'll know and love your family as much as you do. I promise to teach her everything I taught you. I promise she'll be thinking of you when she votes for the first time. I promise to tell her what a beautiful person you are. I promise to never love again as I have loved you.'

And to the youth he raises his eyes and says, 'I'll go.'

—-

Cora is the one to find him the following morning. Light streams into the garage as she walks towards him and taps lightly on the glass. It had been an uncomfortable night for him. Rather than return to the house he had let himself into the car and curled up in the back-seat. The memories kept him awake for hours. Here she'd sat as they'd talked about women's rights for the first time; here she'd sat as he'd opened up to her about his ambitions. The last drive they had ever taken together in this car had been the night of their failed elopement. But she hadn't been in the backseat then. They'd both been in the front, side by side.

He had eventually drifted off, tears running with the dried blood on his face. Cora looks as if she hadn't slept at all. 'There you are,' she says tiredly, as if she had known all along. He sits up and slips out to stand beside her. They both look dreadful. Cora dressed without the help of O'Brien and her hair is still tied back in a makeshift braid. Tom is still wearing the ruined dressing gown.

'Why don't you come inside,' she says without a hint of condescension. She feels all his grief and more. A mother is not supposed to bury her daughters. She offers a pale fragile hand. He takes it. 'I'll make sure you don't see Robert.'

They begin to walk slowly back towards the house. 'They're waiting for you to name the baby,' Cora says, with eyes fixed to the uppermost window. 'She was crying through the night but Clarkson kindly stayed to take care of her.'

Tom nods and fingers the hem of his sleeve. 'I was thinking… Sybil. She'll be every bit as beautiful as her mother. In every way.' There is a pain in his heart that won't leave him, perhaps forever. But at least now he has something to live for. He'll wait. Wait for the day he can join her.

Cora tightens her grip on his hand. She doesn't look his way but tears appear as suddenly as the smile on her face.

'That's a very beautiful name, Tom.

Now let's go and say goodbye.'

* * *

**A/N:** Oh god I am so angry. I keep drifting into moments of denial and then realising the horror of it. The Branson's were supposed to be an embodiment of change together, but Tom is the only one who has had anything to do this series and Sybil's characterisation has been completely neglected. I hate this so much. I feel like it was a really disgusting move to pull, to kill off a beloved character just in order to stir up a little more drama for Robert.

IT WAS CHEAP. But yeah sorry rant over. Ugh I am fuming right now.

But anyway if I were still watching I'd say I want Tom/Cora moments. I want her to clearly support him. Because they loved Sybil the most. They are bound in grief now. Honestly fuck the Branson/Matthew bromance (well not really but) this is the friendship I need.

(Also please ignore any inaccuracies on my part, especially with the villagers accents. I know it's probably totally wrong but I watched Poldark recently so the Cornish accent is stuck in my head idk? And also I hurriedly wrote this in about 30 minutes, and only briefly proofed it. So yes, pls forgive)


End file.
